


Flowerdown

by peacocktails



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens, Star Wars Episode VIII: The Last Jedi
Genre: Angst and Fluff and Smut, F/M, Force-Feeding, Master & Padawan Relationship(s), Medical Procedures, Tickling
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-09
Updated: 2018-02-18
Packaged: 2019-03-15 19:36:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,098
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13620276
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/peacocktails/pseuds/peacocktails
Summary: More smut shortfics may be added to this work as time goes by (but they probably won't connect to one another in any way).





	1. Chapter 1

  
She remembered the first time she'd seen him really smile.

R2-D2 had spotted him and was motoring towards him. He reached his feet, started wiggling - and then Luke was bent forward, clasping his sides. "Ah!" Tiny tickles of electricity.

  
"Hello to you, too, Artoo!" he'd said through a huffing laugh. The smile, filtering through, like godlight, that rare sight on a cloudy island planet. "Okay, okay, you can stop, now!" She knew that kind of touch could torture, if unwanted or gone on too long.  
  
Then he'd tickled her palm 'with the Force', then laid his hand on hers as counterpoint to that lightly violent teasing. Sent hopeful, childish fantasies beating soft wings and feathers up to the sky. There'd been a sudden image of a brush of his beard on her jawbone, of breath from his nose against her earlobe. She realised how much the lightness in his voice had pleasantly upset her expectation of a guttural baritone of Outer Rim masculinity - and thoughts began whispering: would he tickle, too, or scratch? Would he always be like this to her? Did he _know_?  
  
No.  
  
It would be wrong, anyway. Against some kind of sacred code.  
  
She remembered this only because she hadn't really shown feelings in quite a long time, either. Or maybe even felt them - but that was self-pitying; she musn't think like that. Months had passed, since Crait.  
  
Funny, too, how it sometimes took a while to remember the nice parts of bad times. Maybe two months from now she'd find herself nostalgic for this present place: Dagobah, where the dregs of the Fleet were hiding out, and where the swampfood gave even her Jakku-trained stomach trouble.  
  
She doubted it, and, in fetal position, clutched her abdomen.  
  
A light pricking on her upper back was probably a stray spine in the bug-eaten flowerdown pillows from the Falcon. She reached back with her hand to move the pillow away.  
  
Or perhaps now it was a tiny kind of seizure, benevolently localised around her stomach.

And her mid-back.  
  
Distinctly tickly.  
  
Rey stifled a giggle. She was a brave girl, she told herself, who knew how to keep quiet and still.  
  
Perhaps if she kept telling herself that it wasn't the Force, then it would continue.


	2. Hyacander

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> People who have experienced eating disorders or childhood abuse should be warned that this fic may be disturbing to them. Please take care.
> 
> This was mildly inspired by a certain scene (in which Luke saves a stormtrooper) in the otherwise disappointing 'Legends of Luke Skywalker'.

Fear and rage reared flashed through her nerves.  
  
Had to control everything. Guard the AT-AT, hide all supplies in their carefully marked places, and remember to mark the days - if she lost of track of those days, it would all be for nothing. Squirrel everything saleable away; run to and from her mousehole.  
  
Tiny beasts would attack raptors and steelpeckers if cornered.  
  
Cornered - she sat with her back against the junction of the wall. A blanket swaddled tight around her upper body pressed her arms to her chest immobile, in a prayer-ish position. He'd been kneeling with his calves over her calves to stop the seizing in her legs from knocking her over onto the hard rush-mat floor. The leather cape on his back was speckled with half-luminous burgundy blood.  
  
She'd been stung by a rainbowfin hyacander when she'd ventured into that abhorrent cave of the Dark, he'd told her when she'd woken up unable to move voluntarily (but with her muscles seizing intermittently). He'd managed to spear it to prevent it from lodging its stinger in her leg - hence the blood-spatters - but not before it had gotten her twice. Only when the initial seizures had stopped was it safe to attempt the cure, he'd said as he took her out of recovery position to sit her up against the wall (and wrap her). His sharp words of rebuke had hurt, though there was no venom in them. Still - whatever it was about the Force or the Jedi that he'd informed her of at that time had been half-lost in the dolorous stupor his antidote was creating.  
  
Milligrams of hyacander neurotoxin could kill, apparently. Grams of antidote, however, in the form of a chemical found  
in grains cultivated for the Lanai staple, attash porridge - were necessary for any meaningful recovery: grams in the hundreds.  
  
By the hour.  
  
"Stop it!"  
  
A taut, drumlike fullness had swelled in her abdomen - that, and pain, so much pain - and the tears she'd been holding back began to blur her vision.  
  
"Stop feeding me.. please.." It wasn't bad to talk to Master Skywalker this way, because she wasn't talking to him, anymore. It was only some monster from a story some adult would have used to scare her, and control her as always.  
  
The hated spoon shrunk in her vision as she watched him take it away and put it back into the half-empty pot.  
  
But then the steel nozzle of his water flask grew - until he was gently pressing it against her gritted teeth, and the metal, like some enforcement droid at a village trading post, silently said: comply. _Stop putting things into my body_ , she'd meant, and she'd have shouted it at him if she could have done so with a closed mouth.

"Rey." He took her shoulder in his gloved hand. "You need to get better. Do you want to get better?"

She found herself half-shaking her head, mouth closed.

So he held the flask in his teeth by the nozzle, and, with both thumbs, pressed between her cheeks until she opened. And then, it was all memories of invasion flooding in with the water: of indignities upon indignities from childhood that she thought she'd run away from at age ten, and run away from for good.  
  
"You're dehydrated from the sweating," the hazy voice swam through her ears. "You're not about to die, understand? It's going to be alright."  
  
He moved a sweat-sticky lock of hair out of her eyes, and then took her temperature on her forehead. "Do you feel like you're about to throw up?" She nodded.  
  
"Mhm. We'll stop for a while." Raspy breath from her nose touched his fingers. "Seems like you're running a bit of a temperature, too."  
  
_Poisonous things hide down there_ , he'd said. _Don't even put one foot down in that water_ , he'd said.  
  
To her downfall she'd acquiesced without asking questions: he'd approached her with the information when, not five minutes earlier, Kylo Ren had accused Luke of harbouring some vague and terrible secret that would be revealed in due time.  
  
Thoughtlessly she'd assumed Luke was being metaphorical.  
  
No: not quite like that. What had happened was that she hadn't heard him - not really. She'd heard the words, but heard in them only an echo of Kylo's sentiment.

The metaphor was of her own design.  
  
  



End file.
